Orzammar's Call
by Procrastinisha
Summary: It was only a nightmare. No, it was much more than that. One-shot [possibly two parts] about the Calling of a City Elf warden. Rated T for a bit of bad language.


**Ruairen - _[ROAR - ren]_**

**Dragon Age and the Alienage Heraldry belong to BioWare, but touch Ruairen and Zevran will be forced to... read a very interesting article in the 'paper' about you. :) City Elf interpretation is mine.**

* * *

The combined scent of honeysuckle, salt and citrus teased Ruairen Tabris' nose as, irritably, but in good nature, he undid yet another button on his shirt. The window from the area that served as their kitchen revealed the cobbled streets and stone arches of Treviso baking in the unforgiving Antivan sun. Ruairen shook his head - how his lover had ever managed to convince him to leave cold, wet, wonderful Ferelden behind for the sweltering heat of Antiva was a mystery to both of them. The place was lovely, he didn't want to be mistaken, but - oddly, considering the horrendous conditions compared to human life, even after Queen Anora's multiple improvements - it simply wasn't home like the alienage was.

A smile flaunted his high, Elven bone structure as the front door slammed. He took one last glance at the human couple kissing under the honeysuckle blooms that dripped from the crevice of every stone before drying his hands, all ready to give a certain roguish blond elf a kiss of his own. He stopped suddenly, flinching with an irrational, primal fear. At the door was Zevran... but the foul stench, soft hissing, heavy steps - Zevran, whilst after his escapades was not always as fragrant as he could be (often that was a turn-on) had definitely never smelled this bad. Not to mention, his footsteps were as soft as those of a stalking cat.

Heart racing, Ruiaren reached behind him for the kitchen knife he'd been handling, but his fingers met only empty air and smooth polished wood.

"Oh, Gods, no," he whisper-groaned out loud; he must have misplaced the knife in his carelessness. Ruairen felt adrenaline fill his body even as fear froze his muscles, each one poised and ready to spring. Fight or flight?

A terrible sound, like an animal in the agonizing throes of prolonged death, came from the hallway, and the shadow of a creature he thought he'd left behind taunted him as his breath came heavy, blood rushing, pounding, drumming in his ears like the terrible, taunting song of the Archdemon and the thrum of the horde.

It seems he hadn't left them so behind after all.

Ruairen's head whipped around, the sound ready in his throat, desperate to defend the kissing couple outside that were oblivious to the threat. His helplessness and terror twisted the rising sound into desperate screams that tore at his throat, for the couple were not the humans that they had been but mere minutes before. The two genlocks that now stood in their places screamed at him, waving their daggers and gnashing their filed teeth in hungry anticipation for the taste of his flesh, ready to sate their thirst with his blood. Tears poured from his eyes, unstoppable, and the screams kept coming, they just kept coming, exhausting him; no one was rushing to his aid, for they had all turned to or been overrun by darkspawn who now flooded the streets outside like summer rain.

The heavy, snarling breath of the hurlock in his kitchen doorway had Ruiaren sinking to the floor in despair, as, unarmed and alone, he tucked his head between his knees and prayed fervently to the Maker and the Prophet Andraste for mercy, or, at the very least, a quick death. He peered out from between his fingers, catching glimpses of yellow-green flesh mottled with red and milky white cataract eyes. His prayers had turned to a demented chant of, 'Zevran, Zevran', hoping that he was rushing to Ruairen's aid as he had done so very many times before; even now, the insidious fear that had been at Ruairen's back, driving a thick wedge between the two city elves even as their relationship had blossomed, wormed its way into his panic-struck brain... what if Zevran were never coming? What if he had abandoned Ruairen deliberately, seen this coming, left him alone? _Left him alone?_

The heavy, wet thump of flesh on stone drew his eyes even as he struggled to look away, the coppery smell of blood on the floor threatening to bring up the contents of his stomach. The acid taste of bile stung the back of his throat just as salty tears stung his eyes, for he was gazing into the lifeless brown ones of the severed head of his lover, mouth slack, rivulets of blood dried on the skin and clumping his hair. Zevran's skin had lost its golden glow and his face showed the sickly yellow pallor of death.

Frozen where he was, Ruiaren could do nothing to defend himself but scream as the creature lunged at him. His animal brain kicked in and he lashed out furiously, fists connecting again and again with resisting flesh. He scrambled for his dagger in another fruitless search _(perhaps it had fallen on the floor?)_ but found nothing as the foul stench of the hurlock grappling with him made his eyes water and his breath stop, choked off, in his throat. The darkspawn managed to get its arms around him, crushing him, forcing Ruairen to confront its face; its mouth opened, but instead of the hissing non-sounds that, as a Grey Warden, he had been cursed with the ability to almost understand, came out the pure, plain, blessed voice of his favourite assassin. His eyes flew open proper, and instead of the heat of noon he was wrapped in darkness and the comfort of strong arms, a soft, Antivan, very non-hurlock voice telling him to _shush, shush, mi amor, don't worry, there's nothing that can hurt you here nothing will ever hurt you here _and to _calm down, love, please, Ruairen, calm down, _and the warm breath on his neck, the feeling of warm, smooth skin against his back, reassured him that Zevran hadn't really left him, after all.

* * *

"I have to go somewhere," Ruairen said, rolling his earthen mug of nettle tea between his palms, chest heaving with the resignation of his sighs. He closed his eyes as though doing so could block out more than just the light, but the truth; that, even though it had only been fifteen years and Alistair had predicted 'more or less thirty', his Calling had come. Soon, he would have to make his way from Treviso, Antiva, to Orzammar in Ferelden, where he would battle the darkspawn until his death. Perhaps if he were lucky he would have enough time to visit his family in the Denerim Alienage before the taint overtook him.

"It was just a nightmare," Zevran mumbled.

"No. It was more than that."

"How much more? So much more that you have to... to _leave...?"_ Zevran's voice broke towards the end and Ruairen's head jerked up in surprise. During the Blight Zevran's (often, somewhat inappropriate, or badly timed) humour and affection had been like the finest wine to a man who only drinks riverwater; refreshing, if unnecessarily so, and uplifting in the face of such a dire situation. Very few times had Ruairen heard his partner express such raw emotion without jest - other times being when Zevran had revealed to him the true reason why he had accepted the Grey Warden contract, and a handful of stolen moments in front of the fire in their camp or tent. That one word - _leave - _meant more than just Ruairen's absence. Even though Zevran may not have known the ins and outs of the Calling, he knew that if Ruairen left, he would never be coming back.

Ruairen sighed. "All right. I won't leave."

"Good. I... love you."

"Drink your tea."

"Ruairen..."

"Drink it."

"Mm."

* * *

_I love you. Do not follow me._

_~Ruairen._

Zevran scrunched the note up and glared at the spot where Ruairen had been lying a few hours ago.

"You left without me, you knife-eared whoreson! _Fuck!_"


End file.
